A Curious Visitor
by n.clive.gerard
Summary: On his french honeymoon school teacher H.G. Wells meets city councilman Jules Verne. Verne tells him a curious tale that had been related to him by his friend Victor Hugo. A true story of an escaped convict encountering an alien vessel that was too fantastic to make it into the novel Les Miserables.


It was in 1864 I departed from Albion's shores for the first time. I'd had enough of England and my life there, and I needed time away from society to be with my dear Amy, who was no longer the coy young student I once taught, but now a maturing woman and the recent object of my ardent affections. What she saw in me I could not tell, but was not about to discourage her enthusiasm for me, or the benefits that came with it. The weather in the North of France was more temperate than Britain's more dour climes for the time of year, and despite my atrocious French we were able to just about fathom out how to get about and make do during our respite.

We settled first in Lille, which provided us with the necessary creature comforts and a cross section of Gaelic culture, but it proved to be too much of bustling city for me, and so we ventured a little further South into the smaller town of Amiens. Amy would busy herself visiting the patisseries and draperies in the afternoons, while I would linger around the cafes trying to pick up ideas for stories. I had a notion of trying my hand at writing, but found most of the conversations and recollections to be too provincial in nature for me to use.

I'd almost given up hope in finding the fantastic in this part of France until I overheard a young man talking to an older town official named Jules who would eat his daily confection at a nearby table, whose fondness for sweets showed in his portly figure, amassed over years of indulgence. Up to now I'd only heard people approach him about the mundane matters of running such a village, which he dealt with quickly but efficiently, but on this occasion I was surprised to hear questions about submersibles, flying craft, and subterranean adventures. This piqued my interest more than anything else I had heard on my stay, and when the youth left I asked the venerable old gentleman if I might sit with him and ask some questions of my own. He seemed to suppose at first that I was a tourist interested in the history of his hamlet, but I told him my curiosity laid more in the tales I had overheard him mention. It seems this man had been an author of some note in this part of the world, though he had taken local politics up as part of his retirement. In his past his mind had reached forward to the future, to contraptions and escapades of a more fanciful type. He assured me though that his stories were rooted somewhere in fact, and that truth was often more unbelievable than fiction. I pressed him to give me an example and his mind reached back to a story a more esteemed author had related to him a couple of decades earlier.

Before the first fledgling attempts at revolution, when the disparity of wealth and poverty were at its greatest a man could find himself a convict for an unpaid loaf of bread. One such man related his remarkable life and many escapes from the law to a Monsieur Hugo, on the condition of anonymity. His story had since been published to great acclaim and popularity, and I had some vague knowledge of it myself though I'd left it unread, presuming it to be the type of historical fiction in which I had little interest. Yet I was informed there was more to the story that had gone unpublished, because it did not fit the framing nor purpose of the author, but which he still vouchsafe to his trusted associates of which Jules thought he might be the last alive.

In Paris there is a high walled convent called Petit-Picpus, a place of refuge from the refuse of that city. At the time there were in its grounds an aged and somewhat lame gardener, Fauchelevent, assisted by a man whom the nuns presumed to be his brother, and whose daughter attended the school there. The duties of the gardeners were usually very routine, and followed a strict time schedule that kept them apart from the nuns. Yet, to ensure they didn't inadvertently come into contact with the sisters they wore bells on their ankles, so the one should hear the other coming. It was a life without much variation for both the monastic and the domestic servants. However, even into the most uneventful of places the world can intervene, and on occasion the unknown world can also visit.

It happened one evening that the convent was awoken by a large crash in the gardens. The Mother Superior stopped any of the nuns and novices from going outside to see what caused it, but the gardeners were not under such a restriction and went to investigate. In a deep impression in the earth they saw a large glowing metal cylinder, pulsating with an unearthly light that came from within. Who could say what it was? It was like nothing they had encountered before, the older of the two after some consideration supposed it might be some new military munition, but the younger was not so sure. One of them went to touch it, but there was such a great heat emanating from it that kept them from getting that close. The next day the Reverend Mother carried out her own investigation. She concluded it must a sign from the heavens, and allowed the other sisters to come pay homage to it, and it was named after the patron Saint of their order. Flowers were laid around it, and plans had begun to inform Papal Rome of their great find.

When evening came on the older gardener could hold back his curiosity no longer, and while alone investigated the cylinder. It was cooler now, and he noticed that there was some sort of hatch at the top which he sought to pry open. He had not the strength alone to do so, but found it opening of its own accord after a little while. An artifical light of some kind emanated from the interior, and against his better judgement he moved closer to peer into the device.

The other gardener, who the elder called Madelain, had been reading his scriptures and reflecting upon them when he heard the frantic ringing of a small bell. At this he ran to his old friends aid, grabbing a rake as he left their cottage, as it was the nearest thing to a weapon they had.

When he found Fauchelevent he was in the grip of the tendrils of a monster, the like of which he had not seen in the most hellish moments of his imagination. It's face was four times as wide as that of a normal man, though it's bulbous eyes were that of an insect, its mouth was closer to a giant bird's beak, and its arms were like the tentacles of some horrendous ocean creature, that held on to him so tightly by means of suction that he could not move, if his fear would abate long enough to allow him too. The creature seemed poised to break the frail gardener in two, and then, perhaps, to devour him.

Madelain pulled at the gardener frantically, and though he possessed great strength for a man his age, found that it was futile. He had saved this man once before, when a heavy-laden cart had fallen upon him. It was instinctive to him to offer such assistance, even at the risk of his own life, as he had once been saved himself, albeit in less physically dangerous circumstances. But now he felt impotent against this evil being. That was until he remember the rake he had with him. Using all his remaining effort he hit the adversary on what he supposed to be his cranium, or whatever the equivalent might be. This worked - the creature seemed stunned for a moment and let go of its grip, long enough to pull his friend out. This demon gave one last lurch forward, and seemed to gasp for a final breath, but then expired, and lay lifeless. It was no-longer a danger, and the two men retired to their cottage to nurse their wounds and to wonder what it had been. The more elderly and infirm of the two died a few hours shortly thereafter, having ultimately been injured beyond repair by his wounds, and his passing was mourned over greatly by his devoted friend.

Later that evening under instructions from his revered employer the younger gardener burnt the carcass, which was now supposed to be from some devil sent from hell to invade the holy enclosure. The cylinder was taken away, they knew not where, and Madelain did not see it again during his time there. The smoke and the noise had caught the attention of the local gendarmes not long afterward, and so the reformed convict left the convent to find another home.

The events of this story would have happened around the late 1820s by my table companion's estimation. The story would have been forgotten if the esteemed author hadn't taken an interest in an old pious man who vouched safe his story upon his death bed. It was just one of the more fantastic tales of a life that went through internal and external revolutions, and being the least believable was left out from the final manuscript. I was told that readers knew the hero by the non-da-plume of Jean Val-Jean, but his real name was never revealed by Monsieur Hugo.

Jules could see I looked upon his story with some incredulity. I had no doubt he believed what he was told by his co-patriot, but who could tell whether it was just some fancy to amuse his dinner guests. He noticed my raised eyebrow though, and told me he had once wondered about the validity of the tale himself. However, he informed me, that one of the perks of his position was that of overseeing the inspector of public works, a person he pretended to be on a visit to a little Paris convent. Whilst there he made a thorough search, and in the crypt found something that verified this account.

Tucked away on some coffin shelf, there was an object covered by a tapestry, woven upon its fabric was the story he had heard about its origins, albeit in more religious imagery. The cylinder was just as it had been described, but all the more otherworldly when viewed for oneself. By him relating this my disbelief was suspended (if but for an evening), and the possibility of life from other worlds dawned upon me. I shared my speculation with Jules, and he commented that perhaps this was but a small scout sent ahead to assess the feasibility of a greater war on our world, by beings far more advanced than us. This subject filled my imagination then, and has ever since.

Seeing how the evening was coming on I bid my good evenings to Monsieur Verne. Before I left though he asked after my name, which I apologised for having failed to give. He seemed to think "Hebert George" was a strange moniker, but I hoped it would stay in his memory, and I hoped he would hear it again if I ever became a published author. After that I rushed home to the future Mrs. Wells and related to her my interesting afternoon, which she encouraged me to write in my journal.

_H.G. Wells went on to write The War of the Worlds, the Time Machine, and the Invisible Man. Jules Verne was responsible for 80 Days Around the World, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Victor Hugo was famous for The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Les Miserables._


End file.
